A light in the dark
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Visiting Merentha Castle on All Hallow's Eve, Damien learns a few interesting facts about Tarrant's past. Slash, but nothing truly explicit except containing the infamous synonym for 'rooster' once, lol.


**A light in the dark**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

A/N 1: Well, this is my Halloween contribution for 2015. Due to a lamentable lack of spare time (and my computer crashing once again; thankfully, I can stay at my boyfriend's place for a few days) it ends just when getting interesting, if you know what I mean :-D. To make matters worse, the plot doesn't really have a lot to do with the occasion other than taking place on the 31 of October and perhaps the location (Almea's burial place). Sorry, but I really couldn't do any better this year. I've always wanted to write a fic about the Hunter visiting Damien on All Hallow's Eve and the resulting mayhem (and more, lol), but I never get round to it. Crap! Anyway: Happy Halloween!

A/N 2: I don't have a clue whether famous designers exist on Erna, let alone designer furniture, but let's just presume that they do, okay?

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When the dazzlingly white fairy tale castle appeared out of the densening veils of of the evening mist like a chimaera, Damien Kilcannon Vryce held his breath. Right after the 'youth' who wasn't young by any stretch of the word had left him to his own devices on Black Ridge Pass, he had stocked up on travelling fare, saddled his mare and headed for the passes to his homeland. Free from his personal hell of guilt and shame at long last, he could finally pick up the pieces and start all over again. He had resigned from his office months ago, lost the vocation that had meant the world to him, and back then, it had felt like the right thing to do. The taint of the Hunter's corruption had run too deep for deserving the title 'Reverend' any longer.

But maybe it was time to reconsider the wisdom of his decision. An open-minded woman utterly free of the preconceived opinions so very common in the higher ranks of the Church, Her Holiness Mariah III. might very well lend him a sympathetic ear and take him back in good graces. And if not, if there truly was no place for him anymore in the institution he'd been serving for so many years, he could still enter his older brother's timber trading company. Due to religious dissensions, Aaron and he weren't as close as they used to be, but after all those years of travelling all over their crazy planet, it would be good to come to rest for a while and find some comfort in the presence of his kin.

So far the theory. But pausing on the watershed and gazing down on the rocky slopes constituting his way home, he simply hadn't been able to ride on. However much he wanted to deny it, he had left more behind on the eastern continent than his priesthood. Only the Lord in His wisdom knew where Gerald was now and if he would ever set eyes on him again, but their encounter on Black Ridge Pass had left him in dire need of some kind of closure. And so he had turned his horse around and headed for the place where it had all begun.

The journey had been worth it. The obsidian black volcanic glass of the castle's façade reflecting back the flames of their torches in pools and arcs, the Hunter's keep had been a stunning sight, indeed, and he still regretted that he had never seen what the place was like in sunlight. But mirroring its owners personality, it had been a cold beauty, menacing and utterly alien to the human plane. This was different. Very different. The entire soaring edifice with its finials and sweeping arches reaching up toward the skies was a poem turned into stone, a monument of Tarrant's unerring aesthetic sense and idealism of his early mortal days, striving to better man's lot on Erna in spite of the distrust and hostilities of his contemporaries.

His vision blurring, the warrior knight kneed his mare into motion again and made for the gates. Very much to his surprise, they were wide open, with no guards in sight. Damien frowned. For understandable reasons, he hadn't paid much attention to it, but even out in the sticks there had been no chance in hell to escape the news about Andrys Tarrant's marriage. If rumours were to be believed, he and the pretty pagan girl who had accompanied him on the accursed crusade had tied the knot in Merentha, but had went on honeymoon immediately afterwards, destination unknown. Good for them. But be that as it may, he would have expected at least a few attendants to have been left behind in order to watch over the ancient family seat.

Aside from the hoarse croaking of a murder of crows the silence was near to absolute, and Vryce felt a cold shiver running down his spine. He couldn't quite put a finger on it yet, but his instincts warned him that something very strange was going on here.

Remembering today's date wasn't exactly helpful for calming his rattled nerves. On their mother planet Earth, a great part of the population might be celebrating _Halloween_ right now, a malapropism of 'All Hallows Eve'. Its roots thousands of years older than even Christianity, the 1st of November was the traditional commemoration day of the departed since times long forgotten. The Church of Unification didn't encourage the old customs, regarded them as foolish superstitions at best, but a lot of the pagan multitudes still put food offerings outside at nightfall. Even some of the faithful placed a memorial candle on the graves of their loved ones on the 31st of October, even more so in the wake of the taming of the fae when an unwary thought couldn't spawn a demonling any longer.

Damien called himself to order. With one notable exception he'd rather not dwell on too closely, the dead were dead and didn't roam the lands under cover of darkness, be it All Hallows Eve or any other day of the year. But this didn't mean that he could let his defences down. After all, there were still enough and to spare of the faeborn left to make staying outside after sundown a precarious business, and even though it wasn't quite dark enough for having to fear a demonic attack, a bunch of ruthless burglars dead set on taking advantage of the landlord's absence could prove a hell of a threat to a single man.

His right hand staying close to the flame-patterned hilt of his sword, the warrior knight rode through the gates and into the courtyard. Right here Gerald's last living descendant must have married roundabout a fortnight ago; the wilting blooms of roses, carnations and all the other true Earth-flowers that had been rushed here from hothouses and gardens all over the country were still littering the ground along with a myriad of fallen leaves, a sore reminder that all living things were bound to end one day.

But it was an imposing numarble building at the far end of the courtyard that drew his attention with irresistible force. As if in a trance, Damien dismounted, tethered his mare to one the gate posts and crossed the courtyard as silently as a ghost. As he had half suspected, it was a mausoleum, like the castle itself utterly untouched by the passing of time. A huge brass plate had been fixed to to the alteroak door, but even before reading the names on it, the warrior knew without a sliver of doubt who had been buried here nigh to a millennium ago.

 _Here lies Almea Tarrant,_  
 _the first Neocountess of Merentha,_  
 _and her children Tory and Alix._  
 _May they rest in peace._

A bit further down, the name of Tarrant's heir Eric and his dates of birth and death had been added subsequently. The poor sod had lived to see almost eight decades, but Damien very much doubted that he had enjoyed much of them. Not after learning what had happened to his family. It must have been a traumatic experience that had surely overshadowed his entire life.

Vryce's involuntary shudder wasn't due to the cold. As if it had been yesterday, he remembered the shadow of the woman who had died such a ghastly death at the hands of her beloved husband. And she _had_ loved him dearly, had wanted to save him right to the bitter end, whatever the Hunter had thought about it at the time. The small spark in her eyes that hadn't been all-consuming pain had left no doubt about it.

What Gerald had felt towards her remained a mystery to him, though. Admittedly, fearing to die in ignorance of what would become of his most treasured creation at the age of twenty-nine, let alone being damned to hell for his sorcery by the combined prayers of the faithful, the man had been under a terrible strain, but no loving heart could ever be so cruel as to vivisect his own wife and children. It simply wasn't natural.

The darkness moved beneath the ancient alteroaks to the mausoleum's left, and the sudden realization that someone or something was watching him, _stalking_ him like a predator on the prowl, made his hairs stand on end all over his body. His hand went for his sword again, but when he saw who the man stepping out into the last evening light was, Damien froze to utter motionlessness, not even breathing.

Tarrant's new incarnation was wearing a long tunic of emerald green, heavily embroidered silk, slit up the sides to reveal black leather pants. His raven black mane of hair held back by a golden headband and his cloak sweeping the ground at his feet, he looked like someone who had been transferred to the present age straight from the Revival period, a notion that came a bit too close to the truth for the warrior knight's peace of mind.

Although he had always considered himself a complete heterosexual, he wasn't blind, and he hadn't failed to register that Tarrant had been one of a kind in terms of physical attractiveness. He still missed the soft, light brown hair that seemed to reflect the golden glow of the Core and those glittering, utterly unearthly molten pools of silver sometimes when he was laying wide awake at night, but all in all, the adept's current self was no less pleasant to look at.

Seeing him thus, stepping closer with a fluid grace that simply took his breath away, kindled something inside Damien he hadn't even known existed. "What brings you here, stranger? Seems like a queer place for a fancy dress party, if you ask me," he groused in order to mask his emotional turmoil.

The youth bowed ever so slightly. "My name is Hawthorne. _Gerald_ Hawthorne, at your service. And to answer your question, I've come here to pay my respects to the dead. It seemed somehow... fitting."

"Is that so? Well, while we're at it, maybe you can shed some light on a certain matter. Can't help but wondering whether the first Neocount of Merentha truly loved his wife. If so, he had a damn shitty way of showing it."

"You'd better bear in mind that I'm not connected to Gerald Tarrant in any manner whatsoever, Vryce, or our reunion will be rather short-lived. How on Earth and Erna am I supposed to know anything about his emotional life?" the adept snapped irritably. "If the family stories handed down from generation to generation are to be believed, he cherished Almea as his loyal spouse and mother of his children. Not that it's any of your business."

The man had a point there. Whatever his motives, Damien had no right whatsoever to stick his nose into affairs that weren't his own, but he just couldn't help himself. "I hope you don't mind me saying, but 'cherished her as the mother of his children' doesn't strike me as the epitome of scorching hot passion, if you know what I mean," he dug deeper. "Don't tell me that the son of a bitch indulged in an occasional bit of hanky-panky."

A delicately arched eyebrow climbed towards Hawthorne's hairline. "I beg your pardon?"

"Had a bit on the side. Enjoyed some extracurricular activity. Kept a mistress, or more than one. Shouldn't have been difficult for him with his looks and rank. You're getting the picture now, aren't you?"

"Alas! Honestly, Vryce, I'd rather you kept your dirty mind in check. Your insinuations are disgusting. If you had ever stayed in one place long enough to settle down and start a family, you might have found out that raising children tends to wreak havoc on your love life, not to mention that even the most burning desire is bound to cool down after nigh to twelve years of matrimony. But let me assure you that the Neocount only lay with one single woman ever in his mortal existence, and that was his wife Almea. Or so I've heard," he added somewhat belatedly.

The warrior knight blinked. Well aware of his former ally's deeply ingrained sense of honesty, he had no reason to doubt his words. But although Hawthorne in all probability hadn't intended it, the strange emphasis on the gender designation of Tarrant's sexual partners - or lack thereof - suggested that there had to be more to the story, a very intriguing notion.

His curiosity getting the better of him once and for all, Damien decided to take the bull by the horns. "That's all good and well, Gerald," he said, "but what about the other half of the population? There are always folks who prefer to keep their options open, if you know what I mean. It can't have been much different in the Revival period."

The dark eyes narrowed, scrutinized him mercilessly as if he were a test animal strapped down upon a laboratory bench, and Vryce held his breath. "You're a clever man," Hawthorne breathed at long last. "And a cunning man. I wouldn't have expected this of you. However, you guessed right. Once again, I can merely refer to ancient tales known to just a few nowadays, but it was said that King Gannon was madly in love with his young Knight of the Realm and that his feelings weren't entirely unrequited. Does this answer your question to your satisfaction?"

"And did they... were they...?" Damien couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.

"Lovers? Oh yes, they were. For almost fifteen years, to be precise. It goes without saying that you won't find anything about it in the volumes on the founding history of the Order of the Golden Flame. Or anywhere else in the Church archives, for that matter. The facts about Tarrant's life that weren't altogether struck off the books were subjected to certain... alterations. Whitewashed beyond recognition. It wouldn't do to upset the believers, would it?"

Hawthorne laughed, a harsh, bitter sound devoid of any mirth whatsoever. "I don't want to bore you with a history lesson. Suffice to say that Gannon managed to pacify the eastern lands after a long war involving heavy losses, but even a few years later the Church hadn't quite recovered from being reduced to the sad joke she was in the Dark Ages. The efforts of the Prophet were slowly but surely bearing fruit, but all good things take time. Can you imagine how the swelling ranks of the faithful would have reacted had they known that the idea of the Revival had been plotted between the sheets? By two men, no less? That their ruler was rather lax in regard of religious matters and created your Order solely for the purpose that his favourite courtier could shine, become Knight Premier? I very much doubt that it would have left a good impression."

"You claim that the king wasn't a stout believer. But he was a supporter of the Church of Unification throughout his entire life, initiated the building of our most famous house of worship," Vryce objected. "He even paid for a part of the construction cost with his private means instead of plundering the treasury if the annals aren't completely mistaken."

The adept shrugged. "Love is a strong motivator, Vryce. Gannon also commissioned this very mausoleum as a monument to his undying affection, but refused to let them add the Neocount's name to the memorial plate. It raised a few eyebrows in his time, but he didn't give a damn, insisting that since the man's corpse was nowhere to be found, there was no proof for his death."

"And did they meet ever again?"

"You mean after the transformation? Yes, they did. Twice. Coming across him in the Forest of Brocéliande not far from here, Gannon delivered his former lover from the blood madness reducing him to no more than a mindless animal. For this alone, Gerald Tarrant was forever indebted to him. As a reward, he put his king out of his misery when he was dying from stomach cancer decades later, drank his blood until his heart stopped beating. The mortal remains are in a catafalque in Jaggonath Cathedral, by the way. It's a major tourist attraction I've missed out on so far."

"Gerald, it doesn't happen very often, but right now, I don't know what to say," the warrior knight muttered.

"There's no need to. The involved parties died long ago, and their trials and tribulations are of no concern whatsoever to any living soul."

Hawthorne's face didn't give anything away and his voice was quiet and composed as usual, but there was a trace of sadness in it which belied the serene façade . Damien's heart clenched with pity. As for himself, he was still rather at odds with the new world they had helped creating, lacked a purpose in life and missed his ability to bend the fae to his sorcerous will, but his losses paled in comparison to those of the man he had come to appreciate beyond anything he had thought possible in his wildest dreams.

As if it wasn't bad enough that all the people he had ever been attached to had crumbled into dust centuries ago, Gerald had also forfeited his very identity, from the title he'd defended tooth and nail and his surname to his treasured outward appearance. And yet he wasted no time with bemoaning his fate but stood tall. Whatever could be said about him, the bastard had guts. Not that Vryce had ever doubted it.

Giving in to the surge of affection bubbling up inside him, he stepped closer and wrapped his sword arm around a narrow shoulder. It was meant to be a purely brotherly hug, a gesture of comfort in hard times, but very much to his chagrin his treacherous body had other ideas.

The breath hitching in his throat, Hawthorne tensed up, but he neither withdrew nor asked him whether he had lost his marbles at long last. A tremor passed through his lithe frame, and at the very next moment the channel Damien had thought gone for good opened wide, allowing him access to everything the adept couldn't give voice to for fear of breaking his latest compact. _Apart from your religious zeal, you're so much like him_ , the former Hunter whispered in his mind. _Your muscular build, your easy laughter and good humour, the way you believe in the good in man, something my siblings knocked out of me in the most literal sense of the word at an early age - all this reminds me of him. Just as Gannon and my wife Almea, you're a light in the dark, Vryce. If it weren't an utterly pagan notion, I'd be inclined to believe that his soul was reincarnated in you. I... I don't know what to make of this.  
_

 _That makes two of us, Gerald,_ the warrior knight sent across the channel _. I'm sorry for your loss. Stunned by what you've told me. No one can ever replace the ones we loved. They'll always be in our hearts. But the past is the past. I'm just a humble man, can't hand you riches on a silver platter or shower you with honours, but if you're willing to give it a try, I promise to cherish you for as long as you want me at your side. It''s up to you._

For a long time there was no sound save the autumn wind moaning in the alteroak trees and the hammering of his heart. But just when Damien thought he might have mucked up everything with his bold advance, Hawthorne smiled up to him. "Money is no object, and I don't aspire to titles and honours. If certain events I can't mention without jeopardizing my existence have taught me one thing, it's that there are more important matters in life. What you have to offer will do nicely."

When their lips met, it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. The kiss kindled a fire in the warrior knight's loins unlike anything he had ever experienced before, not even with his old flame Ciani or the unfortunate pilot Rasya Maradez. "I hope you don't think me brazen," he said throatily, "but have you already found some accommodation in the area by any chance? The bare ground seems like a damn poor choice for what I'm having in mind."

Hawthorne chuckled. "Just so. But don't you worry. Even considering that Andrys was never the brightest candle in the chandelier, I was somewhat amazed to learn that he left only two of his servants behind to guard the entire estate. A somewhat strange way to fulfil his neocomital duties, I dare say. Anyway, the irresponsible sluggards are doubtlessly whiling away their time in the nearest inn, wasting the money I bribed them with on drinking themselves into a stupor. What do you think about availing ourselves of the opportunity? After Gerald Tarrant's fall from grace, nobody has ever dared to spend a night in his sleeping chamber. Still outfitted in the original Revivalist style, it's supposed to be a splendid sight, indeed."

As it turned out, they didn't make it even remotely close to any of the bedrooms upstairs. A trail of discarded clothes marked their way to a spacious study equipped with a couple of pretentious designer chairs which were evidently a rather recent acquisition and looked anything but comfortable, but the ornamental silk rug in front of the fireplace was soft and warm beneath them.

The tiny part of Damien's brain still capable of a coherent thought burned to see more of the place where the Prophet of the Law had lived and written most of the holy scriptures representing the backbone of his faith. Maybe they could take a short tour of the castle later and satisfy his curiosity. But then Gerald wrapped his hand around him and let it slowly glide up and down the length of his cock, and his surroundings lost any meaning to him. God knew what would come out of this, whether they'd go separate ways again one fine day or their relationship was destined to last till death did them part. But for now, he verily intended to relish every second of their unexpected reunion.


End file.
